Man oh man. Herworship responded to my shout-out in this entry with a great little short story featuring me and a brown plastic dinosaur kicking evil's ass using only our wits and the weaponry found in my briefcase. Wow. You Smartypants readers are some creative motherfuckers, yo. Color me impressed.

Why is my diction all gangsta-rap lately? It's a sham. I'm no fly girl, and tight pants make me queasy. However, I do have an unopened 40-oz of King Cobra in my refrigerator, left over from last year's Xmas cookie-baking session. (That's the true meaning of Xmas, right? Malt liquor and frosting?) The other day I was shifting fridge-items around and noticed that the 40 is past its freshness date. (Who knew that malt liquor even had a freshness date?) Anyway, it's impossible for me to throw away alcohol. That would go against pretty much everything I stand for. On the other hand, I don't really want to drink a whole bunch of King Cobra either. So I guess there it will stay, until Snoop Dog drops by for a visit or something. (Just kidding. You know I would never serve Snoop expired malt liquor. Never.)

Work. And more work. In my job, I have to communicate excessively with people. This makes me less than enthused about communicating in general, which could be one reason why this thing hasn't been updated in a while. Instead of monkeying around with yet more words, I've been spending my evenings with a giant gin and tonic and lots of music. Wordless music.